


You and the Night and the Music

by Thursday_Next



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Community: reel_merlin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday_Next/pseuds/Thursday_Next
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1930s AU. Merlin struggles with his feelings for Gwen's fiancé, Arthur.</p>
<p>Based on the film prompt <i>I Capture the Castle</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and the Night and the Music

**Author's Note:**

> Written for take 5 of the [reel_merlin challenge](http://reel-merlin.livejournal.com/profile). Thanks to drarryxlover for the beta.

"Arthur asked me to marry him! Isn't that fantastic?"

Merlin stared at her. For a second too long, perhaps. Long enough at least for Gwen's excited smile to wilt into an uncertain frown. There was a sudden leaden feeling in his chest, nothing like the joy he'd always imagined when they'd whispered together, planning for this moment, building their castles in the air. And now it seemed Gwen was going to get to live in her castle after all.

"Oh Gwen," he said quietly. "Oh Gwen." And he reached out for her hand, twining their fingers together and squeezing.

"You think it's too soon, don't you?" Gwen said, biting her lip.

"No," Merlin said automatically. "Of course not. Well. Maybe a little. I'm not surprised, though. He's head over heels for you, you know." 

It _was_ a little sudden, but then their entire courtship had been. She and Arthur hadn't seemed to like each other all that much at first. But then all of a sudden Arthur had been asking Merlin's advice on flowers and coughing nervously in her presence. Then just last week there had been that one kiss by the barn that neither of them knew that Merlin had witnessed. And from all that Merlin could see, Arthur did seem, very much, to be head over heels in love. Only...

"What is it?" Gwen seemed to sense his hesitation.

"It's only... you do love him, don't you Gwen?"

"You needn't worry about me so much," she sighed, not looking him in the eye. "You know, I think I'd marry him if he was an ogre."

"Gwen, please, be serious," Merlin beseeched her. She'd said as much before; the two of them had planned her wedding to Arthur before they'd even met him. They'd held hands as they kicked their heels in the stream and talked about a knight in shining armour who'd fall in love with Gwen and whisk them all away to a life of silk and champagne and never not having enough to eat again. Merlin and his mother as well, because Gwen was too kind hearted to leave them behind. On really cold days, when the three of them had to bring their mattresses into the front room because there wasn't enough wood for more than one fire, when they had onion stew for the third day running because there wasn't any meat to be had, Gwen would declare she'd marry anyone, however old or grotesque, so long as he had money. But somehow now that it was a reality, it seemed wrong to Merlin to hear her talk that way. "Gwen, this is the rest of your life we're talking about!"

"Of course I love him," she said easily. "I love him and we're getting married. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Perfectly heavenly," Merlin assured her, ignoring the sudden sour taste in his mouth, and drawing her into a tight embrace. He chastised himself silently for being so churlish. Gwen was his sister, as good as, and now that he was assured of her feelings for Arthur, he had no business being anything but delighted for her. No business at all. 

"You will give me away, won't you, darling?" She clung to him a little.

"Of course. I promise." He closed his eyes and clung back.

*

Merlin's mother had married Gwen's father when they were both quite small. She was an eccentric, well-spoken woman with no husband (nor, some in the village whispered, any wedding ring) who lived in the old farmhouse with a skinny mop-haired boy, painting her odd pictures. He was a widower blacksmith with a young daughter in raggedy clothes. Both were ignored by much of the population of Ealdor, living quiet and lonely lives, until they struck up a friendship and it occurred to the both of them that while they might continue to be ignored, they didn't have to be lonely.

Gwen had inherited a good deal of her father's practicality, and kept the farmhouse clean and the clothes patched and mended. Three years older, she'd been the one to teach Merlin his letters and sums while his mother sat for hours in the garden or her painting shed, always one step away from creating her masterpiece. Gwen had nursed her father when he'd got sick, and whe he'd died, there had never been any question of her leaving them. She was a sister to Merlin in all ways but blood and he could hardly imagine his life without her. 

Without the income from the forge, times had grown harder. The money from the sale of it was spent mostly on doctors' bills. Gwen took in mending and they acquired a lodger, Will, who helped with the animals and paid enough rent to keep them all fed. There had been one successful exhibition, some five years back -- Hunith's name in the papers, pieces snapped up by rich buyers looking for something modern and daring. Since then, though, it seemed that her inspiration had dried up, and they eked out a living as best they could. 

So when Arthur had shown up, with his fancy car stuck in the mud outside the farmhouse, expensive coat ruined by the rain and blonde hair dripping onto the stone floor of the kitchen, he'd seemed to fit the bill of 'knight in shining armour' perfectly. 

At least until he'd opened his mouth. 

Merlin had been bathing behind the screen in the kitchen, the only place in the house warm enough to take a bath, when he'd heard the unfamiliar voice talking to his companion about their bad luck to break down in such a "dump", populated by "unwashed peasants". To his credit, the second voice (which Merlin later discovered belonged to Arthur's good friend Lancelot) had hushed the first, and Merlin had gotten out of the copper bath, sloshing water onto the floor and wrapping his threadbare towel around his waist.

"Good afternoon," he'd said, scowling at the both of them. "Peasants we may be, but as you can see, unwashed we certainly are not. Excuse me."

Arthur had gaped at him and his companion had chuckled. Merlin had felt his ears burn as he'd heard himself referred to as a "kid", the comment only slightly mitigated by the assertion that he "had guts".

Dressed, Merlin had come down to find them all drinking the cocoa Hunith had made with the last of the milk, Lancelot apologetic and Arthur subdued. It was more than a little awkward, and Arthur had frowned at him and looked him up and down as though now he was dressed, he was not quite what he expected. Merlin had flushed, then, first for the remembrance that he'd been all but nude when they'd first met and second for the realisation that what they'd seen must not have impressed them all that well, since they'd figured him for an awkward child.

Lancelot had assured them that Arthur's manners were usually much better, his temper was merely a little frayed from the car breaking down in unfamiliar country and such inclement weather. Gwen had smiled prettily at him, and Merlin had thought, then, that perhaps Lancelot would be the knight in shining armour after all – but nothing ever came of it and he supposed he had been mistaken.

The next day a large ham had arrived, and a basket of fruit such as they hardly got at all in Ealdor, with the compliments of Arthur Pendragon, accompanied by a thorough apology and an invitation to dinner at the Manor House.

Since then, everything had happened quickly, from mistrust to curiosity to friendship to whirlwind engagement in record speed. Sometimes when he thought about it, Merlin found it hard to catch his breath.

At first it had been Lancelot who was the more open of the two. Merlin had warmed to him quickly, his easy, diffident manner, his honest declaration of his own humble roots. He stood to inherit no title or estate, while Arthur held not only the Manor in Ealdor but a flat in London and some property in the North as well. New money, they whispered in the village, but really, any kind of money was a novelty. Hunith was typically unruffled about the idea of entertaining a member of high society in their own rundown cottage. Merlin was only relieved that she'd never spouted any of her more virulent anti-establishment views in Arthur's hearing; she was as unfailingly polite – and as unerringly distant – with him as she would be with any neighbour. Arthur, for his part, pretended not to mind the taste of her homemade sloe gin and never referred to 'unwashed peasants' within earshot of the farm again. 

Soon, though, it was Arthur whose visits became the most frequent. His smiles grew broader and his manner more relaxed. Sometimes he sat and drank tea in the front room, spoke to Hunith about her painting or complimented Gwen on her outfit. He didn't seem to notice that often it was the same dress, quickly altered with a different piece of ribbon by her own deft hand. More frequently he would drag Merlin out for a walk across the fields, into the woods, either with a gun or without. It was all his land, of course, so he was entitled to shoot what he wished, but Merlin protested so much and made so much noise that they scarcely ever made it back with so much as a rabbit. What little Arthur did kill was brought back and handed over to Will, who gave Arthur darker looks than even his inital prattish behaviour seemed to merit. 

For all their former dreams and plans, for all the hours Gwen spent sat by the fire with a needle and thread and a determined look on her face, it had come as something of a shock the day when Merlin came downstairs, triumphant, with the tennis racquet Arthur had asked him to fetch, to see the two of them kissing by the barn door. He'd stumbled a little, winded, feeling not a little betrayed that Arthur had sent him on a fool's errand in order to take advantage of his absence by kissing Gwen. He oughtn't to look, Merlin knew, but he couldn't help it. There was something a little breathtaking about Arthur, the way the sunlight caught his hair as his head tilted, his smitten smile. And Gwen – well, she seemed to like being kissed well enough. There must have been some kind of understanding between them, he decided. He'd been foolish not to notice. That feeling of being made a fool of had stayed with him longer than it had any right to.

*

In some ways their engagement changed nothing. Hunith, Merlin and Gwen remained in the farmhouse. Arthur continued to send them gifts, small comforts, food, wine. The date was set for sometime in July, so Arthur's sister could travel back from Europe in time to attend, and to give enough time for Gwen to purchase her wedding _trousseau_. Merlin had only a limited idea what a _trousseau_ was, but it apparently involved a lot of different types of material and clothing, towels and undergarments. Whenever Gwen and his mother began talking about it, he would take himself up to his room, or sit out in the yard, where sometimes Will would join him in companionable silence.

Merlin told himself that the hollow feeling growing in his chest was only because Gwen and Arthur shared something now that he could not be part of, that the easy friendship between the four of them was at an end. It couldn't be that he was envious, after all. Gwen was a sister to him. And he could hardly envy her for marrying Arthur – the very idea of being married to the prat made him almost snort his tea out of his nose. How bossy he would be, demanding his breakfast, wanting his clothes fetched and cleaned. Would he be bossy in bed? Merlin wondered, and then found himself blushing violently and biting his lip. He did not want to be imagining Gwen and Arthur in bed! At night, though, he closed his eyes and pictured her sat on the edge of the bed on her wedding night, waiting for Arthur. He didn't really let himself think further than that – although he knew what went on right enough, they kept too many animals on the farm for him to be completely ignorant. But even that much caused a pang in his chest he didn't dare examine too closely.

Only when he drifted into dreams, it was him sat on the edge of the bed, clad only in a towel as he had been the first night they'd met, waiting for Arthur. He awoke sweating and hard, with an ache of longing he couldn't seem to shake. 

*

Arthur's sister arrived in England in June, and whisked Gwen and Hunith off to London for what seemed, Merlin divined from Gwen's letters and occasional telephone calls from the telephone box on the green, to be an endless parade of shops and tea and cakes in places like Claridges. He almost begrudged them the tea and cakes, but if shopping for ladies' underthings was the price, he was perfectly happy to stay at home and feed the chickens, thank you very much. 

He missed Gwen, though. And Arthur, who had gone back Up North to settle some affairs at his estate. He tried not to think about which one of them he missed more. Lancelot, too, hardly came round any more, and Merlin hoped that he and Arthur hadn't fallen out over Arthur's engagement to Gwen. Lancelot didn't seem the type to be stand-offish about his friend marrying someone below him in status, so Merlin supposed it must be something else keeping him away.

Will was good enough company, although it was impossible to talk to him about Arthur without him cursing and muttering under his breath. He'd taken an instant dislike to him, fuelled by his general disdain of anyone with a title or money. Will had a chip on his shoulder ten foot long if it was an inch. Merlin wondered, sometimes, if Will had had a fancy to marry Gwen himself. He'd resigned himself to the fact that he was perfectly clueless about the signs of attraction by now. It could be that. Then again, there were times, especially recently, when Merlin thought he felt Will's gaze lingering on _him_ a little too long, when it took him longer than usual to pull his hand away after they'd shaken hands to part company for the night and he wondered. It wasn't the sort of thing he would even have imagined before these dreams about Arthur had started. If Will did like him in that way, would he reciprocate? And if he didn't, how wicked was it to imagine that he did? Merlin lay in his bed under the thin green blanket and let one hand drift up and over his thighs, imagining Will's callused hands in the place of his own.

It was curiously unsatisfying.

*

Merlin was up to his elbows in poultry feed one evening when he heard the familiar chug of Arthur's 1932 Hillman Wizard outside. He washed his hands hastily in the kitchen sink and rolled down his sleeves, conscious that he looked a mess, although why it should matter so much when he could be sure Arthur wouldn't notice one way or another, he didn't know. 

"Ah, Merlin, there you are."

"Arthur," Merlin replied, and kicked himself mentally for the way his voice sounded, hoarse and croaky. "I didn't know you'd come back. What are you doing here?"

"I'm kidnapping you," Arthur said, smug and unruffled, as always. "Dinner. I've pheasant and wine and can't possibly dine alone."

"I suppose you require my services to entertain you, my lord," Merlin said mockingly.

"Precisely," Arthur grinned, cuffing him on the back of the head. "You're finally getting it, Merlin. Now hop off and change, will you?"

Merlin did as he was bid, changing into his best suit (one Arthur had paid for, the first time he'd taken Merlin and Gwen somewhere Merlin's shabby old woollen suit wouldn't do), muttering under his breath about bossy prats who thought they owned the entire country. 

As they drove off, Will gave him a look which was somewhere between disappointed and reproachful and Merlin felt the tiniest bit guilty over just how much it thrilled him to be driving at breakneck speed through the village at Arthur's side.

The pheasant was delicious, with creme brulee to follow and port afterwards, which went straight to Merlin's head. He'd thought he was used to alcohol by now, but it seemed there were new and untested heights to which he was as yet unaccustomed. 

He remembered the first time Arthur and Lancelot had taken him and Gwen down to the village pub, a week or so after they'd first arrived in Ealdor, Arthur making digs at Merlin about whether he was really old enough to drink "with the grown ups" and Merlin torn between scowling at him and trying to preserve the illusion of maturity. The illusion had been shattered when he'd choked on his first mouthful of brandy, being more used to the weak cider Will made after scrumping apples from the Manor orchard. He'd decided not to mention that, not sure whether Arthur, as Lord of the Manor, might take exception to the theft and punish Will in some way. On the way home Merlin's head had felt pleasantly muzzy. It had been a warm afternoon, Gwen had been wearing her prettiest white dress, Arthur had been handsome and Lancelot kind and he'd been content, in a way that he hadn't been before or since. 

Merlin grew suddenly melancholy, reflecting that that steady warmth of camaraderie was a feeling none of them would ever be able to reach again. The dizzying heights and despairing depths of love were something else entirely. 

"What's the matter?" Arthur demanded, cutting through Merlin's thoughts. Merlin opened his mouth and promptly closed it again, unable to put into words something he felt he was only just beginning to understand himself. He blinked up at Arthur helplessly, a curl of want coiling in his chest as he looked up into those blue eyes, focussed for once entirely on him.

"You're drunk," Arthur observed, amused, then shook his head and walked over to the gramophone. He pulled a record from its sleeve and it crackled to life under the needle. 

_"You and the night and the music  
Fill me with flaming desire."_

From nowhere, Arthur's hand appeared in front of him.

"Come and dance."

"Um." Merlin said eloquently, a little stunned.

Merlin wasn't sure he trusted his legs, but he allowed Arthur to lead him to his feet anyway. He didn't mean to lean into him, but Arthur's hands gripped his arms and it was too hard to pull away. They did little more than sway to the music.

"What do you think?" Merlin could feel the vibration of Arthur's voice, his breath against his cheek.

"About?" Merlin's throat felt thick, his head not much better, and he wasn't sure he _could_ think.

"The song, idiot."

"Oh. Lovely. But... but kind of sad."

"Are you sad, Merlin?" Arthur pulled back to look at him, those bright blue eyes searching his face and Merlin didn't know whether he had the courage to face them or the will to hide.

"Not right now," he said, and it was the truth. Right now, here, with the moonlight and the music and Arthur practically in his arms, he couldn't feel anything but a kind of weightless giddiness as he inhaled the scent of Arthur's cologne. 

Arthur kissed him. 

Merlin could do nothing but kiss back, half euphoric, half afraid that Arthur could tell all that he felt for him from his open eagerness. But Arthur only smiled softly as he pulled back, and Merlin closed his eyes and swallowed, desperate and ashamed and terribly, terribly in love. 

"Merlin?" Arthur stepped back, and it felt like the light dying. "I've offended you. I shouldn't..."

"No, it's..."

"It's only the wine, it makes me..." Arthur shook his head, as if to clear it.

"Arthur," Merlin said urgently, suddenly bold. "I..." he paused, sucked in a breath. "I really love – this song," he faltered. 

As if on cue, the song finished, nothing but the fuzz as the record span round and round, still.

"Then you must take it," Arthur said, drawing away from Merlin and striding over to the gramophone. "Come, it's late. I'll drive you home."

They drove in silence, the car weaving along the quiet roads. Merlin sat with the record clutched to his chest like a poultice to a wound. The engine stuttered, sounding too loud in the stillness as they pulled up in front of the farmhouse. 

"Merlin, about earlier, I shouldn't..."

"It's fine," Merlin cut in, unable to bear Arthur telling him he shouldn't have kissed him. "We both had too much to drink. You were missing Gwen." Her name seemed to echo in the confines of the car, jarring Arthur into silence. Merlin felt a twist of guilt at the thought of her, but not nearly enough to dampen his exhilaration at having been kissed, and by Arthur. "Goodnight," he said, quickly, resisting the temptation to lean in and press another kiss against the tight line of Arthur's jaw.

He didn't tell Arthur that he didn't own anything to play the record on.

 

*

It didn't take long for euphoria to fade into a sort of static unhappiness. Nothing had changed, not really. Arthur was still going to marry Gwen. Merlin still had to be happy for her, to walk her down the aisle and give her away with a smile on his face. He knew now beyond any doubt that he loved Arthur. It was unselfish enough a love to want Arthur to have what made him happy, to wish him nothing but joy in his union with Gwen. And yet, at the same time it was selfish enough to not want to ever have to give it up. To long, fruitlessly, for something to change, to have just one more moment for himself. One more dance, one more kiss. Although he couldn't kid himself it would ever be enough. 

The dreams, too, became more vivid. They began the same, with Merlin sat on the edge of the bed, towel slung low on his hips but now he dreamed of Arthur joining him, the weight of Arthur's thighs on his own, the warmth of his breath on his neck, the sure slide of his hands sweeping down from his chest to his stomach, tearing away the barriers between them with one rough movement. Sometimes, it was he who undressed Arthur, skin prickling with heat as he peeled away the layers of fabric to press trembling lips to the skin beneath.

His mother never asked why he woke at the crack of dawn to launder the sheets. He wrung them out with chapped hands and prayed that he would be able to face Gwen again without his shame showing on his face. 

*

Merlin was right, it turned out, about Will. On Merlin's nineteenth birthday, Will gave him a package, carefully wrapped in brown paper. 

"Oh Will, this is too much," he exclaimed, as he tore open the paper to reveal a small wireless. "It must have cost you a fortune." It was only a cheap, flimsy model, but on Will's meagre wages, with what he paid them in rent, it would have taken months to save, at the least. 

"I saved up," Will said with a shrug. "I know how much you wanted one and I wanted you to have it." He made no kind of declaration, no flowery words, but his steady gaze showed all that he felt. Merlin was touched, but couldn't seem to find the way to accept such a gift graciously without promising something he wasn't able to give in return. Will seemed pleased enough with his delighted grin as they wound the wireless up, eventually hearing a tune playing through the static. Merlin couldn't help letting his thoughts wander, though, wondering whether Arthur would remember, send a card, anything.

There was nothing in the post that morning from Arthur, although there was a card from his mother – her own design – and chocolates from Gwen, caramels, all wrapped up in lilac paper. He ate the chocolates and listened to the wireless with his knees pulled up to his chest, well aware that he had no right to feel disappointed. But then, at noon, a van pulled up outside and unloaded a package with his name on in a strong, unfamiliar hand. 

It was a beautiful wireless in a walnut case, the design of a dragon on the front. Merlin was so caught up in the blissful knowledge that Arthur had remembered his birthday, had cared enough not only to send something but to remember what he most wanted, that he almost missed the disgruntled look on Will's face. It was too late to pretend it didn't matter to him, that Arthur's wireless wasn't the most wonderful gift in the world, now Will had seen the way his fingers caressed the wood. His chance to say something reassuring came and went, and Will slammed the door on his way out. It wasn't that Arthur's wireless was more expensive, or nicer, although of course it was – he probably hadn't put one tenth of the thought or the hard work into getting it that Will had. It meant more because it was from _Arthur_ , although of course, Merlin could hardly explain that to Will.

Merlin caught up with him later, out in the yard. He slipped his hand into Will's and thanked him sincerely for his gift. Will gave him an inscrutable look, and then leaned in and kissed him hard on the mouth. At first Merlin was frozen, unable to respond, but then he kissed back, let Will run his hands over him, the promise of something like oblivion in his arms that Merlin was almost ready to sink into.

But then Will's hands reached for his belt, fumbling with the clasp and slipping below, grasping, his rough hand on his bare skin like a shock of cold water. Merlin panicked and pushed him away, a little too hard, Will falling back against the wall.

"No. God, Will, I'm sorry, but I can't. I can't."

He locked his bedroom door and sat up in bed, hugging his knees, wishing he hadn't gone out into the yard at all. It seemed to taint the memory of his kiss with Arthur, somehow, and he felt awful for leading Will on, for kissing him back, for encouraging him when he knew for certain he couldn't return his feelings.

*

In July, Merlin was summoned to London. To a ball, celebrating the engagement of Mr. Arthur Pendragon to Miss Guinevere Smith. It wasn't an invitation he could refuse.

He felt out of place in the ballroom, filled with its simpering debutantes and fierce maiden aunts, like escapees from a P. G. Wodehouse novel. His collar felt too tight, the electric lights too bright. He danced once with Arthur's sister, Morgana, who terrified him something awful. He'd looked forward to seeing Gwen again, but she looked quite unlike herself, squeezed into a lilac silk dress, cut far lower than anything he had ever seen her wear back in Ealdor, her hair unnaturally frizzed and her face painted. She drank champagne like she was born to it, danced and flirted with any number of men before collapsing into a chair beside him and sighing that she was so glad to see him. 

His mother was vacant except when she managed to enagage a rather startled young cousin of Arthur's in a conversation about modernism and the captalist menace. Arthur was stiff and distant. The only person Merlin could say he was honestly happy to talk to was Lancelot, who slid into Gwen's vacant chair when she stood up to dance with her fiancé for what, as far as Merlin could tell, was the first time that evening. 

"Lancelot! It's been so long since we've seen you."

"I'm sorry, Merlin. I never meant to avoid you. It's all happened so fast."

"Yes," Merlin sighed, "It has rather." Lancelot scrutinised him for an uncomfortably long moment. 

"Do you think she truly loves him?" he asked, turning his attention to the dancefloor and the couple centre stage.

"Yes. Of course she does!" Merlin replied, startled by the question, not pretending not to know who he meant.

Lancelot sighed.

"If you say so, Merlin, I'll believe you."

"She told me so herself," Merlin told him, thinking back to the night Gwen had announced her engagement. She'd been delighted. Of course she loved him. How could anyone not? Lancelot nodded in acknowledgement of his words, and took a long sip of his drink. 

Just then, Arthur and Gwen returned, a little breathless from dancing. 

"Come, Lancelot," Arthur said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "You must dance with my fianceé, she's quite exhausted me."

Lancelot made to demur, but looked at Gwen and seemed to change his mind, taking her hand and leading her out onto the dancefloor, leaving Merlin and Arthur alone together, or as alone as it was possible to be in a roomful of people, for the first time since _that night_.

"She seems happy," Merlin said, to break the silence between them.

"Yes," Arthur said a little wryly, "I took her to visit our flat this morning. She's quite in love with it."

"She's in love with you," Merlin said, cheeks heating as he tripped over the last four words. Arthur didn't reply. Merlin looked over at Lancelot and Gwen, and wondered what they were talking about so intently, when they hadn't spoken in months.

The music changed, then, to _You and the Night and the Music_ of all things, and Merlin felt his heart clench. He hadn't had a chance to listen to it since that night, but after all the time he'd stared at the sleeve, run his finger over the grooves of the record, hummed the melody under his breath, every time remembering that dance, that kiss, it had gotten under his skin. The way the jazz band played it was different, just slightly, he thought, the odd cadence faster than he'd recalled – or perhaps his memory had played him false. He sneaked a glance at Arthur out of the corner of his eye and wondered whether his memory had played him false about anything else about that night – the softness of Arthur's lips, or the smell of his cologne, or the way he'd held him, lightly yet firmly. Arthur's expression gave nothing away, and Merlin's gaze shifted to his hands, curling around the stem of his glass. 

"Wonderful song!" Gwen said as she and Lancdelot returned to their table. "Anyone know what it's called?"

"No idea I'm afraid," Arthur said, with a bright smile, all teeth. Merlin's heart gave a thud, and he didn't know whether to be disappointed that Arthur had dismissed something that had been so very important to him, or whether, perhaps, he'd lied on purpose. Whether, like Merlin, he thought it would be so very hard to form the words without remembering that dance and stumbling and blushing and tripping over his words, or whether he'd all but forgotten it had ever occurred.

"Nor me," Merlin lied, not without stumbing a little, after all, and took a swig of his champagne – large enough for Lancelot to say 'Careful, there', and Gwen to remark that his nose had gone quite red and even Arthur to shoot him a glance that might, just might, have been concerned. "Come on," he said to Gwen when the song changed again, something blessedly faster and with fewer memories attached, "You've not danced with me yet."

"I shall miss you, Merlin," Gwen declared, as led her to the floor.

"You'll visit, I hope," Merlin said. "Or invite me to visit you. You'll need someone to use up all those peach coloured towels." Although he wondered whether it might be best for the sake of his own poor bruised heart if he didn't visit too soon or too often.

"Heavens, the towels!" Gwen exclaimed, "It's really quite tiresome." Merlin frowned at that, remembering how once Gwen had said she would do _anything_ for a new towel with no frayed bits, large enough to wrap all the way around, and here she was drowning in cotton and making a face at her finery.

"Gwen," he said seriously, "You are happy, aren't you?"

"Of course I am, darling," she replied, "You should come with me tomorrow to look at the new flat, it's simply wonderful."

"Yes, but I don't mean just the flat and the– the towels, Gwen. Arthur --" He almost blushed at the name, not having had much cause to say it aloud except in the darkness of his bedroom, late at night and quite alone. "You do love him, don't you?"

"I suppose so," Gwen said dismissively. "I'm quite sure I want to marry him, anyway, and that's the same."

Merlin stopped suddenly, and shook his head, his arms still around her, the two of them an island in the middle of the sea of dancing couples. It was one thing being selfless if he thought the two of them were happy together, that they were in love, quite another like this.

"It's not the same," he said urgently. "It's not."

"I'll be alright, Merlin," she said.

"It's not fair on _him_." He insisted. She laughed then, startled and breathless.

"Merlin don't be so naive. Not everything is a romantic fairytale, like the ones we made up when we were children. Look at your mother and my father, do you think they married because they were swept away by passion, or for companionship and security? He loves me and I like him well enough. We're getting married, that's all there is to it."

"He deserves better," Merlin said, hating the way he sounded, petulant and childish. "It's dishonest."

"Maybe he'd rather have me like this than not at all," she said, "Has that occurred to you?" Merlin reeled, the thought not having occurred to him at all. He wondered whether he himself would rather have a piece of Arthur's heart than nothing at all and couldn't come up with an answer. He felt dizzy and a little sick from the champagne, the whirling dancers and the revelations. "Honestly, Merlin, anyone would think you were in love with him yourself," she said with an unladylike snort.

Merlin paled and dropped his arms, loosing his hold on her. He tried to school his expression into something more neutral, but it was too late, evidently. Gwen stared at him in shock.

"Oh God," she said, "You are. You're in love with him."

"Gwen, not here, please," he begged.

"It's not as if he can marry _you_ , anyway," she said, a little snidely, and then, as he gave her a stricken look, "Merlin, I didn't mean – you know he can't!"

"I have to go," Merlin said, voice little more than a whisper. 

He had all the shillings he'd brought with him in his pocket, still, not having had to pay for any of his drinks that evening. Enough, he hoped, for a train ticket back to Ealdor. It was too late for anything but a long walk back to the farm in the dark and the cold, but he welcomed it; the fresh air did a great deal to sober him up, if little to soothe his wounded heart and wounded pride. The house was dark when he got home and he laid on his bed, not even bothering to undress.

*

"Merlin."

Will's voice was low and determined. Merlin sighed. They'd barely spoken since the night he'd let Will kiss and grope him in the yard, bar a gruff apology and an abashed acceptance the morning after. Merlin steeled himself for a renewal of Will's attentions, but that wasn't it at all.

"You're miserable," Will asserted. "If it's because of – if my behaviour has offended you, then I can leave, find another place –"

"No, Will, that's not it, not at all," Merlin interrupted. "It was my fault. I should never have let you think –"

"No," Will cut in, tone resigned and a little self-deprecating. "I should have known you could never care about me enough to – well." Merlin opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again, embarrassed, as Will's eyes flickered pointedly to his own, red-rimmed and shadowed. "Well. Who it, then, that you're in love with. Is it Lancelot? You've not been yourself since he stopped coming round." Merlin shook his head, _no_ , and Will only sighed the deeper, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. "It's Arthur, then. Well, that's worse. I don't think Gwen will let you have him."

"She doesn't love him, Will," Merlin said miserably, turning to him. "She told me herself. I could bear it as long as I thought he would be happy with her, but..." He trailed off, biting his lip.

"I never had her figured for a fortune hunter," Will said, lips pursed. 

"She's not – it's not like that, exactly. She likes him, but it's as if... as if she's resigned herself to him, and it shouldn't be that way, he deserves someone who loves him, who'd put him before everything else."

"Someone like you, you mean?" Will said, wryly. 

"No, I don't – I don't have any illusions that he'd ever..." Merlin shrugged, remembering the curl of Gwen's lips as she'd said _it's not as if he can marry_ you. Remembering the unexpected heat of Arthur's mouth on his.

"I've business in town this afternoon," Will said, and Merlin's shoulders straightened at the abrupt change of topic. "I shouldn't be back late."

"Of course," Merlin said. 

*

Hunith returned to Ealdor two days after the party, chiding Merlin for running out on them, but not seeming all that concerned, beyond a remark that he seemed so pale, these days. She shut herself up in her painting shed after breakfast, muttering something about a breakthrough, bourgeois hypocrisy and fractured reflections. She emerged sometime in the evening, when her plate of dinner was cold and congealing on the table, grabbed five empty milk bottles and disappeared back into her studio. Merlin ate a spoonful of cold potato and resigned himself to the fact that this was what life was going to be from now on, here in their isolated cottage, with Gwen married and moved away. Fragmented conversations with his eccentric mother and awkward ones with his lodger-cum-would-be-lover.

 

He had only just started on washing the breakfast dishes the next morning when there was a pounding on the door.

"Arthur!" he gasped in surprise as he opened it to see a distressed and dishevelled Arthur leaning against the doorframe. 

"Is she here?"

"What?" Merlin blinked at him a little stupidly, half wondering whether he was still asleep and dreaming. He'd had a dream like this, once, when Arthur had all but broken down the door, thrown himself at his feet and declared that he couldn't live without him before making violent love to him over the kitchen sink.

"Gwen," Arthur said, a wrench in his voice, rousing Merlin from his hopeless fantasies. "Is she here?"

Merlin shook his head, a little helpless, wringing the dishcloth in his hands.

"No, why would she be? She's in London with you."

"Not anymore," Arthur croaked, holding out a slip of paper. "I found this this morning." Merlin wiped one hand hastily on his trousers and took it, frowning.

_Dear Arthur,  
I'm sorry. I cannot do this anymore.  
Gwen._

Arthur sank into one of the kitchen chairs as Merlin reread the note, confused.

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I, Merlin," Arthur said, sounding so sad and lost that Merlin's heart broke for him, a little. "Nor do I."

"Maybe she just got cold feet?" Merlin suggested. "Last time I spoke to her she seemed so determined."

"Determined?" Arthur looked up at that. " _Determined_ , Merlin? Not 'happy', not 'in love'."

"Yes, happy, too, I didn't mean..." Merlin held out his hands in an imploring gesture. Arthur sighed and looked away.

"She never loved me, did she?" 

"I don't know," Merlin said, honestly, a little hoarse. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I thought, but..."

"I need to find her," Arthur said. "I have to know, Merlin." And right at that moment, Merlin thought he'd do anything to make Gwen love Arthur, just to see Arthur whole and happy again.

"Of course." Merlin found himself nodding, before realising that Arthur wasn't even looking at him and feeling stupid. He threw the discloth back into the sink and sat down at the table across from Arthur, surreptitiously sweeping the crumbs from the morning's bread and jam onto the floor. Arthur surprised him, then, by reaching across and taking Merlin's hand in his own and gripping tightly.

"You will come with me, won't you, Merlin?" 

"Of course," Merlin said again, knowing that he couldn't refuse Arthur anything.

There were droplets of dew on the Wizard, still. Merlin found himself calculating the details of Gwen's flight as they drove in silence. 

"Her bed wasn't slept in," Arthur said, as if guessing the direction of his thoughts, "Where would she have gone, do you think?"

"Out of London," Merlin said, without needing to think about it. "But if she didn't come home, I don't know..." He gazed out of the window at the way the morning sun bathed the fields in a soft, yelow light, and wished they could enjoy the view under different circumstances. "There's a place she always loved. By the sea. Camelot. We went a couple of times, on daytrips, when times were... well. I suppose she might have gone there. I don't know." 

The coast was less than an hour's drive away. They tried three inns and a guesthouse, all of which allowed them to look at the guest registry without so much as a murmur, and Merlin couldn't help but wonder whether it was the Pendragon name which opened doors. And Arthur looked the part, even when he didn't announce himself by flourishing his card. Merlin had the feeling that had he tried the same on his own he'd have been turned out on his ear.

The last place on the seafront didn't even look as though it were a hotel or a guesthouse, an odd grey building with something like a castle turret. Merlin felt a twinge of recognition, and knew suddenly that if Gwen was anywhere in this town, it would be here.

Arthur scanned the guest register, but there was no sign of a Miss Smith. He turned to go, but Merlin saw something which made his stomach coil with dread. He laid a hand on Arthur's arm, finger trembling as he pointed to the entry which had caught his eye. 

_Mr. and Mrs. Lancelot DuLac_

Arthur stiffened as he looked at it, and then seemed to sag, his entire body deflating, and Merlin tightened his grip on his arm.

"Don't say anything," Arthur said as they went back out into the street. "I should have known. It seems so obvious now."

"Not to me," Merlin wanted to say, but he feared it would only make him seem stupid.

"He stepped aside, the idiot. I knew he was attracted at first, but he saw that I liked her, and..." Arthur shook his head. Merlin didn't dare say he was sorry, or any such platitudes. He followed Arthur back to the car in silence.

Merlin put his hand on the leather seat, as near to Arthur's as he dared. There was no kind of comfort he could give, besides his silent presence. If only just wishing it could make it better, he would work magic, turn back time, give her back to Arthur. If only he could make everything all right again with nothing but _I love you, I love you, I love you._

*

Gwen and Lancelot's wedding was a quiet affair (as these things must be when the bride has jilted another man and been living in sin in seaside hotels under an assumed name). Merlin gave her away, as he'd promised. He wasn't sure his mother had even noticed the change of groom and there were precious few other guests besides Will and Lancelot's mother. None of which seemed to make the slightest impression on the happy couple, who gazed at each other with blissful expressions. Gwen was truly radiant in cheap, borrowed lace (she'd refused to wear anything from the infamous _trousseau_ ), a world away from the slightly brittle, _determined_ young woman who'd danced and drank champagne in London, and much more like the girl he'd grown up beside. 

After the ceremony Gwen embraced Will and thanked him, and Merlin discovered that it was through Will's agency that Lancelot had found out that Gwen didn't love Arthur. After that, Lancelot had all but knocked the door down to get to her, told her his feelings for her had never faded, and swept her up into his arms. Merlin smiled sadly at the story and couldn't help but forgive them both, pleased that at least two of them would get the romantic happily-ever-after they deserved, but still hurting on Arthur's behalf. Gwen apologised to Merlin for how she'd spoken to him in London, and assured him she'd have married Lance if he'd had nothing but a penny to his name, which set Merlin's mind at rest on that score at least.

Lancelot had taken a job in India, back while he'd still believed Gwen didn't love him, and now they were to go there together. Merlin would miss them both, but he didn't deny it was probably for the best. Gwen kissed him on the cheek before she boarded the boat and said she wished he could be as happy as she was, someday. Merlin squeezed her hands in his own.

"I don't think that's likely, somehow," he said. She gave him an odd look, then.

"You never know," she said. "It might not be so hopeless as you think."

But he didn't have the chance to quiz her about it any further before it was time for her and Lancelot to board, and he shook the thought from his mind.

*

Merlin didn't really expect to see Arthur again, sure that Ealdor would hold too many painful memories for him to want to return. But in this he was mistaken; Arthur became a not infrequent visitor at the farmhouse, admiring Hunith's paintings and talking about sponsors and gallery showings. Merlin knew Arthur well enough to know he wouldn't raise false hopes, or pretend to like something simply out of pity or patronage, so there must be something clever, something worthwhile in the distorted splashes of colour and jagged cuts of glass which covered the old cow shed after all. 

It was two months after they'd discovered Gwen and Lancelot in the Castle Inn at Camelot that Arthur kissed him again. They were sat on an felled log, just within sight of the farmhouse. Merlin had been sitting, contemplating whether his mother could manage alone, if he were to look for a situation in London, when Arthur had joined him. They'd talked of the weather, warm for September, and Arthur's efforts to avoid his sister's _soirees_ , when with no warning, Arthur leaned over and captured Merlin's lips with his own.

Merlin supposed he had the answer, now, to the question of whether he would rather have a piece of Arthur's heart than nothing at all, because – although it took a feat of more willpower than Merlin had known he possessed – he found himself shaking his head and saying,

"Arthur, no."

"I'm sorry." Arthur bowed his head and didn't say anything more. The two of them sat in silence for a while, as the evening mist crept across the far fields.

"I suppose Gwen told you. How I've been sitting here, pining away for the love of you," Merlin said, a little bitterly.

"No!" Arthur protested, quickly. "Not in so many words, no. But she said enough that I could hope." 

Merlin blinked at him, confused. What did Arthur to have to hope for? Arthur reached over and went to take his hand. Merlin pulled away, shaking his head.

"I can't," he said, although the words cut him to say. "I won't be a substitute."

"You wouldn't be," Arthur said, looking at him in something like surprise. "Merlin. Gwen isn't the only one who wasn't being – entirely honest about her feelings."

"I know that," Merlin snorted, thinking of how he'd let Will kiss him while he longed for Arthur, how Arthur had kissed him when he was engaged to Gwen, how Lancelot had pretended his feelings for Gwen were gone. They'd led each other a merry dance, the lot of them, and none with the partner they'd most wanted to have. 

"I did love Gwen. That wasn't a lie. But I – I've had feelings for you, too. For a long time. At first I thought it was only friendship. It wasn't difficult to persuade myself that she was the one I was in love with. But you – you were never a substitute, Merlin. Each time I kissed you, it was only because I wanted to, because you were so lovely and I couldn't help myself and I swear to you I was thinking only of you."

"You do remember then," Merlin said. " _You and the Night and the Music_."

"I couldn't forget. I didn't dare keep the record, didn't dare let myself think of you. But now..."

"What happens now?" Merlin asked, when Arthur didn't finish. 

"I was thinking of taking your mother's paintings to Berlin. The art scene there is thriving, and it's a place where – well, people like us – go, sometimes."

It took a while for Merlin to discern the meaning of Arthur's fumbled 'people like us', then felt foolish when he did, even as he reflected that there were enough 'people like us' to be found in the depths of Sussex, after all. Could Arthur really want him like that, not only as a companion, a friend, but as a lover, too? 

"What about the farm?"

"I'm sure it would thrive in Will's capable hands."

Merlin blushed, then, as he remembered Will's 'capable hands' on his skin. Arthur was quiet, and if he guessed, well, _let him_ , Merlin thought, then was taken aback a little by his own viciousness. 

"I suppose it would," he said at last.

"That's not a 'no'," Arthur said, something suddenly fragile in his eyes, which steadfastly refused to meet Merlin's. 

"There wasn't a question," Merlin returned, voice teasing. Arthur's own voice was anything but when he finally spoke, turning to Merlin with a serious expression, a yearning in his eyes that all but took Merlin's breath away as he asked,

"Will you – Merlin?" taking his hand again and meeting no resistance, this time.

And there was nothing then to answer but, "Yes, _yes."_


End file.
